


drawing breath

by i_am_the_walruss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, mentions of drug use, post-case slump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_the_walruss/pseuds/i_am_the_walruss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>John helps.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	drawing breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anchors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anchors/gifts).



> Elaine--
> 
> My dear, I apologize for how dreadfully long this took me to post. I do hope that it was well worth the wait, despite the shortness of length. I thank you for your support and kindness.  
> May your mind be clear, your heart warm, and your smiles true.
> 
> (Also, please excuse my abuse of the word 'day', their names, and my overuse of commas.)

John could count on one hand the amount of peaceful days between cases if they were graced with an eight or higher.

Post-Case Day Number One typically consisted of sleep, cup after cup of tea, and the binning of empty biscuit tins.

Post-Case Day Number Two typically consisted of sex so absurdly mind-blowing that basic human needs like food and trips to the loo were not worth the walk about the flat.

And, God willing, if John was blessed with a third day of peace, he could rouse Sherlock from his chair to get take-away  _together._

But, as it goes, nothing gold can stay, and this bright Thursday morning was Post-Case Day Number Four. _  
_

Day three had gone rather smoothly, to John's bewilderment, but he wasn't at all surprised when Sherlock declined bedtime in favor of glaring pointedly at John's empty chair, hands steepled in front of his lips.  
John sighed, exhausted and dreading the riotous frenzy Sherlock would be in the next morning, and set a cuppa on the side-table before pressing his lips to the messy mop of hair. "Don't stay up too late, yeah?"  
Sherlock dignified his request with a half-hearted nod of his head, staying where he was, and John went to bed alone.

Not an atypical night in the Sherlock-and-John household. 

When John woke that Thursday, he sighed at the empty space beside himself, turning his face toward the sun shimmering in through the bedroom window.  
It was a beautiful day, possibly no clouds.  
And he could practically see Sherlock having a meltdown in the sitting room.

He heaved himself up from bed, fixed the sheets, and prayed that Sherlock was at least distracting himself.

John had buzzard luck, however. 

Sherlock, in all his messy-haired, fidgety glory was sat in his chair, eyes to the ceiling, practically vibrating.

John, once again, sighed as he put the kettle on, "Distractions didn't help, I take it?"

Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath, "Nothing from Lestrade. No point."

Tea finished, John took his place across from Sherlock in his own chair, "And the blog?"

Sherlock waved a hand, bare feet bouncing, "Nothing worth my time."

John took a sip of his tea, "Not even a six?"

"Not even a six," Sherlock mumbled.

"I can see the smoke coming out your ears," John said, "What's on your mind?"

It was Sherlock's turn to sigh, "Nothing. No case, no stimulation. I can feel my brain liquidizing."

John offered a bemused smile, "There must be  _something,_ Sherlock."

Sherlock met John's eyes, "You don't understand, John. I  _need_ mental stimulation. If I don't have any stimulation, my mind begins to wander onto things that aren't important, and I cannot think about what isn't important. I _need_ a case, John. I would even take a  _five."_

 John pursed his lips. Sherlock was a special mix of brilliance and danger and restlessness. His mind was his power, his mind was everything; a muscle that softens when left untouched, slowing down without something to dissect and pick apart. There was almost always a puzzle that needed solving or a question that needed answering, always something that he could absorb into himself through osmosis or whatever it was that happened in Sherlock's head. Thoughts were the fuel that replaced eating.  
Without that, he crumbles into the hot, slick embrace of inebriation. The Work gave him a high, but drugs gave him a stronger one.

He would not let Sherlock poison himself.

John stood and pointed to the sofa, "Go sit there."

Sherlock quirked a brow, "What for?"

"Just do it. Please."

Sherlock was reluctant and skeptical, but he rose from his chair anyway. Once on the sofa, he folded his arms, "What am I doing here?"

John stepped over to the sofa, sitting himself down on a far end. He patted his lap, "Lay your head down."

Sherlock blinked, "John, if you wanted me to give you oral sex, you could have just--"

"Sherlock," John said, warning tone in his voice, "Just bloody do it, okay?"

Petulant, Sherlock complied and nestled his head in John's lap, "Okay, I've done it. Now, what am I doing here?"

John brushed Sherlock's hair behind his ears, "Just trust me. Close your eyes."

Sherlock sighed, doing as he was told, "This is ridiculous."

"Hush," John said, positioning his index and middle fingers between Sherlock's eyebrows and hairline.

Sherlock may have started to mutter, but whatever was on his lips fell into a purr as John began to press on his temples. 

John smiled, feeling the neck against his thigh relax, "That's it, love, that's it. Slow breaths."

Times like these-- when Sherlock was warm and the flat was silent enough to hear a pin drop-- were rare, and so often did John forget that they were possible. Sherlock was a slave to his vocation, a slave to the distraction, a slave to the high The Work was incapable of giving. John went between staring adoringly at Sherlock's face and staring solemnly at the tiny pin-pricks dusted along his arms, a vision of those long fingers curling around a syringe and that face twisting in bliss as he was called again to the thick blackness that gave him so much to ponder and so little to regret.   
Some days, Sherlock's desperation to use was a cloud so dense that light couldn't escape.

But, John was Sherlock's conductor, his catalyst. He would do whatever possible and impossible to drag Sherlock out of the darkness. And as long as he drew breath, put one foot in front of the other, Sherlock would double his own efforts to do the same.

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson would step her way up the flight of stairs, chirping about the doorbell while a short-breathed Lestrade came in behind her, and Sherlock would rise from the sofa, a delighted spring in his step, mutterings of, "An eight, John, an  _eight!"_ on his lips.  
John would smile, meet Sherlock in the kitchen and pull him down, down for a kiss, laughing as they donned their coats and went out into the warmth of the afternoon, knowing that, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be going to bed alone.


End file.
